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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24387004">Straight on til morning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoinToYourWitcher/pseuds/CoinToYourWitcher'>CoinToYourWitcher</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Peter Pan &amp; Related Fandoms, Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie, Peter and Wendy - J. M. Barrie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, His shit was naughty, Hurt/Comfort, JM Barrie quotes are bolded, Just see for yourself., Loss of Virginity, Peter Pan AU - historical setting, Peter Pan References, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Underage Rape/Non-con, Wendy is 15, peter is 16, societal pressure</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:27:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,835</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24387004</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoinToYourWitcher/pseuds/CoinToYourWitcher</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Wendy is traveling from England to Tahiti, where her parents and brothers are waiting. The voyage is rough. Most of the ship's crew are scoundrels and orphans from the workhouse. The cruel captain is fond of the bottle, but she has a protector onboard. Peter. The boy with clover green eyes.</p><p>*note to reader* I’m going to <strong>bold all JM Barrie quotes</strong> so you’ll see how some of these original quotes were hot AF.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>(forced), Wendy Darling &amp; Peter Pan (Peter Pan), Wendy Darling/James Hook, Wendy Darling/Peter Pan (Peter Pan)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. She who first tempted him</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <a href="https://ibb.co/PY5SkDY">  </a>
</p><p> </p><p>Wendy leaned on the smooth, touch-worn railing of the Jolly Roger, searching the skies for seabirds, but saw none. They had left the coastline now, the ship’s hold heavy with cargo from Marseilles. She had been aboard one week, her and Nana the only paying passengers and conspicuously the only women.</p><p> </p><p>Her family waited for her in French Polynesia, homesteading and teaching her older brothers about the vanilla trade. Up until summer, her fate had been undecided as she attended finishing school. Then a letter arrived--finally--informing her that the Darlings would be staying indefinitely in an effort to avoid the war. She would be joining them. </p><p> </p><p>At first, she and Nana were afraid to board the vessel. The crew looked fearsome, but they were not accustomed to sailors. Tattoos and rugged faces were to be expected. </p><p> </p><p><b>“A more villainous-looking lot never hung in a row on Execution dock,” </b>Nana had said.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy felt she was right, but mixed in with the men were boys from London’s workhouse, and she immediately fostered a duty to mother them, watching them forced to labor when they should be in school. </p><p> </p><p>Nana never would have set foot on the ship if she had known about the <b>dark and sinister man </b> that was the captain, James Hook. Wendy had already fled from his tempers on two occasions. He stormed about, muttering uncivilized curses and brimstone with breath of fiery rum, taking out his grievances harshly on the children. <b>“Avast! Belay!”</b></p><p> </p><p>She missed the safety of their home in Bloomsbury. It was shuttered now, prey to German bombs.</p><p> </p><p>Someone had spied her solitary form. She wiped her cheeks as he approached, sliding up to face her instead of the sea. It was one of the workhouse boys, the eldest. Peter.</p><p> </p><p>“Girl, <b>why are you crying</b>?” He asked, his tone playful. Peter was always trying to cheer the boys. Crowing to wake them up in the morning, inventing games, telling ghost stories. His tales had no endings and he could continue them at will, for he made them all up with his own fantastic imagination. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll never see my home again,” she said seriously, watching as the orange sun dipped into the horizon, seeming to almost sizzle.</p><p> </p><p><b>“Never is an awfully long time,” </b>he countered. “Aren’t you going to read to the boys tonight?”</p><p> </p><p>She turned to meet his gaze. His clover green eyes flicked back and forth between hers.</p><p> </p><p>“I haven’t seen you there when I read,” she admitted. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m always there,” he said, turning to glance over the side of the ship. “Look a mermaid!” He shouted, pointing.</p><p> </p><p>Despite herself, Wendy looked down. Peter laughed at her, nudging her elbow with his.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy smiled, shaking her head at his boyish charms. She appraised his tattered shirt. Imagination and a sense of humor must be a lifesaver for an orphan.</p><p> </p><p>“I can teach you to read, you know,” she offered, casting an assumption. None of the orphan boys could read.</p><p> </p><p>He smiled, but it was forced. She had struck a nerve. Of course it was embarrassing for him to be older than her and illiterate. She hadn’t intended to make a jab at his station.</p><p> </p><p>“When would I have time for that?” He scoffed, his tone flippant, his youthful grin gone.</p><p> </p><p>“After the boys go to bed,” she suggested, blushing suddenly. It sounded as though she wanted to play mother and father. </p><p> </p><p>His grin was back, his ears reddening to match her cheeks. </p><p> </p><p>“Deal,” he said, shaking her hand. </p><p> </p><p>Wendy nearly gasped, having never felt a rough hand, warm and huge over hers. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll see you back here tonight, after Nana is asleep?” Wendy confirmed, knowing her chaperone would never allow her to teach a boy that was her senior. </p><p> </p><p>His eyebrows raised, but he nodded as she straightened up and made her way below deck.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy read to the boys that night from Treasure Island, speeding through the passages faster than usual. She was nervous as Peter clung to the shadows of the sleeping cabin, the boys littering the floor and dangling from hammocks.</p><p> </p><p>Turning the page with a trembling hand, Wendy caught a glimpse of Peter’s wicked grin. They were both thinking of their rendezvous on deck, just minutes away. </p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t courting her, just learning so he might have more opportunities, Wendy reminded herself. But sneaking off was risky. He might be punished. Why would he give up precious sleep and risk the captain’s ire to <em> study </em> ? Perhaps he had designs on her, but she had been the one who offered. <b>There could be no denying that it was </b> <b> <em>she</em> </b> <b> who first tempted </b> <b> <em>him.</em> </b></p><p> </p><p>
  <b>—————————</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Sprawled out on the deck, faces close to read by lantern light, Wendy realized she probably should have started Peter on an easier book than Mutiny on the Bounty. They had worked through the alphabet and simple words for two weeks and though he was a quick study, he was easily distracted. She decided to skip ahead to the mutiny.</p><p> </p><p>She read aloud, “I'll take my chance against the law. You'll take yours against the sea. When you're back in England with the fleet again, you'll hear the hue and cry against me. From now on, they'll spell mutiny with my name.” Her finger underlined the words for Peter to follow along, a futile motion, as his eyes were on her rather than the page.</p><p> </p><p>“Why do you do your hair like this?” He asked, gently touching one of her auburn ringlets. </p><p> </p><p>Fashion was ridiculous on a ship with shirtless men, but Nana insisted she maintain the facade of a lady. There was nothing more infuriating than a corset in summer.</p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes I wish I could just let it down, run wild like your Tiger Lily,” Wendy said, remembering his latest tale, a story prompted after the crew told them very saucy descriptions of the Tahitian native women.</p><p> </p><p>“This<em> is </em> you running wild, talking to the <em> lower class</em>,” he said, laying on his back, his focus gone from the lesson entirely.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy knew they wouldn’t have crossed paths were it not for the voyage. Despite his station, she knew that if he had parents and money, he would have been out of reach to<em> her. </em> He would have married some heiress and had the world at his fingertips. </p><p> </p><p>“You’d hate being a stuffed shirt, Peter,” she said, seriously, looking at his sun-bleached hair. She laid on her back too, looking up at the stars. “The tedious life of a clerk or a shopkeeper. You’d die from monotony.”</p><p> </p><p>“There are things worth dying for,” he said, his voice deeper when on his back. </p><p> </p><p>Wendy smiled, trying to decrypt his meaning. He saved her having to respond.</p><p> </p><p><b>“Stars are beautiful, but they may not take part in anything, they must just look on forever,” </b>he said, looking pityingly at the expanse. </p><p> </p><p>Not sure if he was speaking in riddles again, Wendy just gazed up with him, feeling his arm rest an inch from hers, close enough to sense his heat.</p><p> </p><p>“I know how they feel,” she said, letting her arm touch his, an innocent sin, one that could easily be denied.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re brave for a girl,” he said, not moving his arm from the spot. They both lay very still.</p><p> </p><p>“Much use bravery is for a girl, when there is nothing for me to do with it,” Wendy said, “My brothers get to decide their future. Where they go, what they do, who they do it with.”</p><p> </p><p>“What would you do?” Peter asked.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy turned to him, propping up on her elbow and resting her cheek in her hand. She pulled her thimble out of her pocket, holding it up on her finger, “Not embroidery, that’s for sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter copied her, propping up to face her. He grabbed at her thimble in jest but she was too quick for him, holding it behind her back in a fist. His hand moved to her chin instead, holding her still for his kiss. He stopped to look at her stunned expression for a moment, then tilted his head and found her lips again, his hand moving to the back of her neck. </p><p> </p><p>His warm mouth moved on hers, asking for entrance. Instinctively, she opened her mouth and felt his tongue slip inside, a small invasion that she welcomed with a smile. Peter felt her smile with his lips and grinned in return. In an instant, Wendy realized he was leaning her back down to the deck. She pushed him with her free hand, dropping her thimble and standing up.</p><p> </p><p>“Bit presumptuous, Peter,” she said, grabbing her book and leaving the lantern. </p><p> </p><p>The truth was, she wasn’t afraid of what Peter wanted to do. She was afraid because she had no idea how to do it. No one spoke of such things. What little she knew of boys she had learned from her brothers. She knew about kissing. She knew husbands lay with their wives.</p><p> </p><p>“Wendy!” he said, chasing her a few steps and turning her round. “I don’t know what that word means, but I wasn’t going to do anything, I swear.”</p><p> </p><p>Glad for the cloak of night, hiding her false anger, Wendy balked at the below deck entrance. She spun back past him in search of her thimble. Nana would scold her if she lost it.</p><p> </p><p>Peter’s hand materialized in front of her face, holding her prize. She took it back but didn’t leave. She didn’t want to fight. She wanted to grow up so she would know what to do. So she wouldn’t embarrass herself.</p><p> </p><p>“It was just a kiss,” Peter said, pulling on her ringlet again. For some reason this time it felt patronizing. She smacked his hand away and grabbed his tattered shirt, pulling his mouth to hers. </p><p> </p><p>He backed her slowly against the mast head for support, so they wouldn’t fall as the ship slowly heaved. His hands on either side of her head, he twisted and turned her at his will. She had started it, but she was putty in his hands. He was so tight against her, one of his knees was between her legs. He paused, groaning into her mouth, a pained sound.</p><p> </p><p><b>She felt him solicitously, lower down than his chest, </b>“Are you in pain?” </p><p> </p><p><b>“It isn’t that kind of pain,” Peter replied darkly, </b> pulling her hands away. He took a step back, “You’re- <em> we’re </em> not old enough for this. We should stop.”</p><p> </p><p>Part of her was relieved, part of her offended. Part of her was aching with unfulfilled need.</p><p> </p><p>“Now, don’t get mad at me,” he said, his hand on her arm. </p><p><br/>“I’m not mad. I don’t think we should do <em> that </em> either,” Wendy said, keeping her voice mild, though she felt like a bird who had just tried to fly, before being shot to the ground.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A different treatment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter found her sewing in her corner cot, alone. Nana was gone, busy fussing with the cook.</p><p> </p><p><b>“Would you like an adventure now? Or would you like to have your tea first?” </b>He said with a smirk.</p><p> </p><p>Abandoning her work, Wendy let Peter pull her by the hand to the deck to discover his latest invention. They had fashioned a board and rope into a swing that attached to ‘Long Tom’ the cannon, dangling a foot over the water. </p><p> </p><p>There wasn’t much wind today, so the ship’s progress was slow, making swimming by rope possible.</p><p> </p><p>Today marked 40 days aboard the Jolly Roger and Wendy had spent every one of those days watching the cool waves wash by, wishing she could dip into them. The equatorial heat was wilting.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t, Peter. I don’t have a bathing costume,” Wendy said, watching the boys practice flips and tricks off the shrouds.</p><p> </p><p>Peter frowned, measuring whether or not to try to convince her to strip down to her skivvies and throw decorum to the wind. Instead he backed away, his smile returning as he pulled his shirt over his head. </p><p> </p><p>Wendy looked away, down at her hand on the railing, but watched as he dove in, coming up to shake his head.</p><p> </p><p>There were grown men milling about on the deck, watching her with interest, which should have deterred her, but only made her want to be away from them and in the sea more. </p><p> </p><p>The boys probably didn’t have permission from the captain to swim. She definitely didn’t have Nana’s consent. But she reached behind her and pulled at her stays anyway.</p><p> </p><p>Their nighttime literary trysts were making her bold, though Peter and Wendy merely spoke and enjoyed each other’s company, afraid to trip into the folly of two weeks ago.</p><p> </p><p>Shrugging off her dress, she quickly climbed down the ladder, wearing only her thin undershirt and drawers. The water was chilly, coldest on her feet as they plunged deepest. She swam to the swing, keeping her head above water, and pulled herself up, realizing her mistake too late. </p><p> </p><p>The fabric of her shirt was clinging to her breasts. Peter was swimming towards her to swing her, but looked away as she pulled the material away from her skin. </p><p> </p><p>Swimming under her, he popped up behind her and gave the seat a push. Lifting her feet, she went up, over Peter’s head, then forward again. He pushed the seat harder this time and she felt the breeze fanning her wet skin. She felt clean and comfortable for the first time in weeks.</p><p> </p><p>“The gall!” They heard the captain’s voice from a gunport above their heads. The boys and Wendy scrambled to return to deck and lift the swing from Old Tom before he arrived in a storm of rage. </p><p> </p><p>He lined them up, ripping the boys by the hair, pacing in front of them in his great redcoat, a symbol that he was once a soldier, respected, however he might have fallen now. Wendy had never noticed how tall he was, the prospect of punishment seeming to make him grow. Captain James Hook was going to hurt them, all of them.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Hook smiled on them with his teeth closed, and took a step toward Wendy.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Long Tom is not a toy. FIVE LASHES A PIECE. And you, mistress, come with me,” he said, pulling Wendy by the ear. Whining, she kept pace with him to avoid her ear parting from her skull forever. She caught a glimpse of the crew seizing Peter first, the instigator.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy was relieved. <b>A different treatment was accorded</b> to her. Hook was taking her below deck to deliver her to Nana, whilst the boys would be welted. For once, it was a blessing to be a girl.</p><p> </p><p>At the stairs, he pulled her by the arm, passing right by the forecastle and instead making for the captain’s cabin. Perhaps he meant to use a ruler on her backside. That’s what her father did. </p><p> </p><p>His room was extravagant with thick, dark wood furnishings and a velvety bedspread, a globe, and a desk laden with brass instruments and maps.</p><p> </p><p>Locking the door behind him, he did indeed throw her against his desk. She cringed, leaning forward, waiting for the ruler...or belt. She watched him rip his thick belt from his trousers, but he didn’t use that either, tossing it to the floor violently. </p><p> </p><p><b>Hook let his </b> greatcoat <b>slip softly to the ground, and then biting his lips till a lewd blood stood on them,</b> he approached with nothing in hand.</p><p> </p><p>She was a fool. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Dark as were his thoughts, his blue eyes were as soft as periwinkle.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Wendy inhaled to scream but he was on her, covering her mouth and tearing her wet drawers down with the other. No! No! No! </p><p> </p><p>She shrieked a word, surprised herself that it was, “PETER!” but the sound came out as one muted syllable. Hot skin touched her cold bottom as he forced her flat over his maps. She could smell the spirits from his breath in the air and the sooty inkwell near her forehead. </p><p> </p><p>Pain.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy nearly bit her tongue as she was split in two, again and again, screaming and spitting into the hand that covered half her face. This was what her mother and Nana were protecting her from. This unbearable degradation. </p><p> </p><p>The captain went faster, panting into her neck, leaning close so that only he could hear her protests. His boot kicked at her ankle and her stance widened. She screamed harder. </p><p> </p><p>Her core felt raw, torn, bleeding, until it didn’t. Something else was building and she closed her eyes, recognizing the ache. No one was coming to save her, so her body was doing it for her. </p><p> </p><p>She grew slick between her legs and the captain slowed down, taking his time now, his noises becoming more human. Her chin quivered under his hand, her cries coming silent now. </p><p> </p><p>“Harlot,” he whispered into her hair, driving himself up to the hilt with an “ohh” that made her sight blur with humiliation. </p><p> </p><p>Raising his hand off the desk, he reached under her shirt to grab at her breasts, palming at the tender flesh. He groaned into her back, that pained noise. It reminded her of Peter the night they kissed. </p><p> </p><p>She would play make believe, pretend he was Peter. Peter’s arms around her, pulling her tight. Peter who laughed easily and touched her hair. Peter who read Shakespeare with her last night, the most difficult book she owned.</p><p> </p><p>“Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter’s beauty would never fade, he’d always be a boy to her.</p><p> </p><p>The ache turned into a sweet sensation until she squirmed and jerked, a transport that tore through the pain and fogged her thoughts and for a moment she wasn’t there. </p><p> </p><p>Then she was back and couldn’t pretend anymore. The captain’s movements were becoming erratic. His hand covered her nose and she was suffocating.</p><p> </p><p>Peter had called her brave. </p><p> </p><p>Hook grabbed her hair, slammed into her, the desk shaking and papers flying. She wanted to cry out, but closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. He squeezed at her chest. Too hard. But she made no sound. She couldn’t breathe. She saw stars and they reminded her of Peter too.</p><p> </p><p>There was a smash of glass and metal over the desk, falling down from the air. The captain’s hand left her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Hook<b> never heard the cry of anguish he hoped to wring from her.</b></p><p> </p><p>His weight lifted and the captain slid to the floor at her feet. Turning round, she saw Peter running to close the door. He didn’t turn around, waiting for her to pull her drawers back up. Hook lay at her feet, dead or knocked out, the back of his head bleeding freely onto his coat. </p><p> </p><p>Wendy took a rasping breath and Peter ran to catch her as she fell to her knees.</p><p> </p><p>“Hush, you can’t make a sound. It’ll be the brig and a hempen necktie for us both,” he whispered.</p><p> </p><p>Her body was shaking but she couldn’t stop it. Peter tucked her head into his chest. She spotted his weapon, one of the hall lanterns, a shell now, its glass on the desk and in her hair.</p><p> </p><p><b>“Poor Wendy. Poor Wendy. You just think lovely wonderful thoughts,” </b>he said, rocking her gently. </p><p> </p><p>She was sore and there was blood but his arms felt safe. The captain twitched at her feet and she stifled a fresh scream.</p><p> </p><p>Peter stood and drug the captain to the window above the stern, lifting him to the sill and feeding him through the opening. There was a delay, then Wendy’s eyes widened at the sound of the splash. Peter had just killed the captain.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. She grew up a day quicker</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>He signed to her to listen.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Captain?” came a crew member’s voice down the hall, accompanied by the sound of more than one pair of boots.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“Peter,” she cried, clutching him. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“Ahoy there, you lubbers!” he called. </b>
</p><p> </p><p><b>It was a marvelous imitation. </b>Wendy’s mouth dropped open in surprise. She knew Peter was bold, but to attempt such a trick after such a heinous act had her sitting struck.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“Captain? Is all well?” they asked timidly, but he answered with a hollow moan.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Alas, dogs, I am out of sorts this evening. No supper tonight for me, give it to the children!” Peter continued, clutching at his stomach, despite the fact that the crew couldn’t see through the door.</p><p> </p><p>“To the children? Are you sure?” came Smee’s voice, the first mate, dumbfounded by the captain’s apparent newfound generosity. </p><p> </p><p>Peter glanced at Wendy, fearful he’d taken them for bigger fools than they were, until they heard a crew member interpret his silence as anger.</p><p> </p><p><b>“Better do what the captain orders,” </b>someone said as they shuffled nervously back down the hallway.</p><p> </p><p>Peter's eyebrows raised, evidently confused that his ruse was so easily a success.</p><p> </p><p><b>Wendy was watching Peter with glistening eyes; but now that all was over she became prominent again, </b>standing up slowly. </p><p> </p><p>On the floor near the door she saw her crumpled dress. Peter must have come looking for her after his lashing to return it. She picked it up and Peter turned, trapped in the intimate room with her, revealing the back of his tattered shirt where angry, crimson stripes marked his shoulder blades.</p><p> </p><p>A punishment fit for thieves and crooks, not children.</p><p> </p><p>She couldn’t do the stays by herself so she asked for his help, holding onto the bedpost for support as he pulled them tight and tied a bow.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll sneak out one by one,” Peter said, “You first, while I clean up the lantern.”</p><p> </p><p>“How did you get in? He locked the door,” Wendy asked, trying to braid her wet hair so that Nana may suspect she merely bathed, rather than swam with the boys.</p><p> </p><p>Peter produced a plain metal hair pin from his pocket, one that looked suspiciously like hers. “Picked it.”</p><p> </p><p>Wendy wanted to ask if he had taken one of her pins as a keepsake, but now was not the time for her fancies, they were conversing at the scene of the crime.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Peter. For saving me,” she whispered, taking his hand, glad that she had one friend who knew. Because she would never tell a soul.</p><p> </p><p>For,<b> in the end she grew up a day quicker than the other girls.</b></p><p> </p><p>---------------------------------------------</p><p> </p><p>Wendy and Peter continued meeting to study, despite the ship’s turmoil upon the mysterious disappearance of the captain. Smee, <b>the essence of the commonplace, pathetic Smee,</b> was now in charge, though his orders were seldom obeyed with the hop-to-it-ness of his predecessor. </p><p> </p><p>Peter told tales to the boys, loudly, and in full earshot of the crew, detailing all the ways a captain might suddenly disappear from his ship. Suicide from a love unrequited, a siren’s song luring him to the depths, and his favorite, cold-blooded murder, accusing a different crew member every time, until there were so many ridiculous theories, it became old news.</p><p> </p><p>Then, when the two were alone, his true worries surfaced, not about being found out, but about Wendy and how she had changed. Her smiles were rare and she was prone to days where she couldn’t leave her bed, lingering in comfortable sleep and frustrating Nana.</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t let it change you,” Peter said one night in earnest. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s different for boys,” Wendy said, leaning her back on a fresh water barrel. “Men don’t lose their virtue, women do.”</p><p> </p><p>Peter closed his book, frowning at her now. “Wendy, you didn’t lose anything. That wasn’t a choice. You’re still as pure as you ever were.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I’m not,” Wendy said, pleased that he thought so, but he was wrong. She had known a man, and that was the material matter.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t you know there are two types of...kisses?” He said, using a more solacing euphemism, “There is the type that someone can <em> take</em>, then there is the type that you <em> give</em>, <strong>the</strong> <strong>secret</strong> <strong>kiss</strong>, the one you hoard away and give willingly to the right person.”</p><p> </p><p>Wendy’s shame was only ever mended by Peter’s kind words and good opinions. He saved her that day and every day after until she could speak of it frankly. And<b> they sat thus night after night recalling that fatal Friday, till every detail of it was stamped on their brains and came through on the other side like the faces on a bad coinage, </b>until Wendy thought of it so much she didn’t feel bothered to file it away and think of it less and less.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>----------------------------</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>A few of the crew leant over the bulwarks, drinking in the miasma of the night; others sprawled by barrels over games of dice and cards.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Thoughts of the vanished captain were soon overshadowed by a more pressing problem as the ship’s inhabitants began falling ill. At night, when the weather was fine, most went to the deck to avoid the smell of the infirmary, where now ten men and boys were being nursed by Nana. </p><p> </p><p>Wendy was forbidden to enter the makeshift hospital wing, or come in contact with anyone who had done so, including Peter, who was there often, trying against hope to comfort Slightly and the twins who were all three in a bad way.</p><p> </p><p>He described to her their steady decline, now as melancholy as Wendy ever was herself, this voyage robbing them both of their youth.</p><p> </p><p>What was worse, Wendy couldn’t get a private word to properly console him, what with the crew above deck at night. She spent most of her time in the empty crow’s nest, as far from the sickness as she could achieve. </p><p> </p><p>Their horrid journey nearly at an end, one dark night she awoke to Peter sitting across from her in the nest, his head buried in his knees.</p><p> </p><p>“Peter?” She said, sitting up. “Oh no, are you ill too?”</p><p> </p><p>She reached to feel his head but he dodged her hand. “No, but you shouldn’t touch me, just to be safe.”</p><p> </p><p>His face was red and streaked with tears and <strong>h</strong><b>e looked at her uncomfortably; blinking, like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep.</b></p><p> </p><p>She had never seen him look so cast down and tired, even when their rations were cut and they gave most of their food to the little ones, when he was still expected to keep up with the crew who did the same work with twice the amount of food.</p><p> </p><p>“Slightly, the twins, Tootles…” he began, and her heart sank. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” she cried. “I wasn’t there.” She wasn’t there to hold them, the only mother they remembered.</p><p> </p><p>“I began to feel like the angel of death. Wendy. Every child I touched left me,” Peter sobbed dryly, his body left with nothing else to give.</p><p> </p><p>He objected but Wendy crawled over to him and embraced him, rocking him in her arms, his mother tonight too. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll never recover from this, Wendy. Their faces will haunt me. I’m closing up tight so I never love anyone again. I can’t love anyone again,” he said into her shoulder.</p><p><br/>“No, Peter,” she cried, holding him tighter in a promise. “<b>Keep the window open for me.”</b></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Sacrifice everything else</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Land ho!” echoed throughout the ship until every occupant had heard it thrice and tested its sound on their own happy tongues.</p><p> </p><p>It was morning and the sun had not even shown itself but the promise of it lightened the sky and revealed a blue formation that could have been clouds, were it not for the white craft shining brightly at its side, a passenger steamship.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy found Peter by Old Tom, unsmiling, a witness to her excitement. She gave him a pointed look to follow her below, private now with every soul above, even Nana, who rarely left quarantine except to eat. </p><p> </p><p>Wendy made for the sleeping quarters, but he caught up with her in the hall. Still, she backed her way there, surprised when he followed.</p><p> </p><p>“My family will be there to take me and you’ll be forced to unload and reload. Gone within a fortnight,” Wendy said, drinking in the look of him as if it were the last time. Shirtless, tanned, and muscled, his pale complexion transformed somewhere over one of the two oceans they had crossed.</p><p> </p><p>“No. I signed up for indentured labor. They’ll pay me nothing and I’ll be given a piece of land,” Peter said. “Here. In Tahiti.”</p><p> </p><p>He closed the door behind him and her heart beat faster. The air was humid and stale in the room, <b>the light guttered</b>, making it gloomy, but she would be with him anywhere.</p><p> </p><p>“When did you do that?” Wendy asked, her voice catching in her throat, barely believing Peter’s words could be true, that he was to live here and not return to England with the crew.</p><p> </p><p>“The day I met you,” Peter whispered, his face an inch from hers.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy stood on her tiptoes, closing the distance, their lips parting feverishly, welcoming and open, his tongue on hers in that deep way that sparked her body to craving. And she remembered this and wanted this and <b>now</b> <b>Wendy was every inch a woman, </b>she didn’t shy away from what was coming next.</p><p> </p><p>She slid her fingertips over him, finding his manhood, but his hand flew down and gripped hers hard. Not in anger, but in shame at his body’s fast response. </p><p> </p><p>“Not like this,” he pleaded, hunching just to reach his lips to her forehead. </p><p> </p><p>He was taller, taller than their first kiss, somehow growing despite their two months of malnourishment.</p><p> </p><p>“Not in this room with the ghosts of our boys,” he said, looking at the three empty bed hammocks, one of which the twins shared. “Not on this ship where barely three months have passed since the captain.”</p><p> </p><p>Wendy knew all of this and still wanted him. She was frustrated that she didn’t hold the same appeal. </p><p> </p><p>“But they’ll—my family—will never allow this. And <b>it isn’t fair: I would say it though it were with my last breath; it isn’t fair. </b>We might as well...” She slid down to her cot, craning her neck, “Don’t you want me?” </p><p> </p><p>She lifted her skirts slowly, gauging his reaction, which—despite his objection, seemed the opposite expression in his hungry eyes. When her skirt reached her hips he fell to his knees beside her cot.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop this, you are killing me,” he said, his hands inexplicably on her skin there as he closed his eyes. “I want you but not one time. I want you over and over, every day forever.”</p><p> </p><p>“But-.”</p><p> </p><p><strong>"You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it,"</strong> he said, looking at her then, his determination reassuring her.</p><p> </p><p>She was glad they finally understood one another. They both wanted a future with the other in it, no matter the cost.</p><p> </p><p>“Will you come to me?” she asked, more of an invitation than a question. They could resume their secret nighttime meetings, just without the pretense.</p><p> </p><p><b>“If you wish it,”</b> Peter said, loath to remove his hands from her bare legs.</p><p> </p><p>“When?” Wendy prodded.</p><p> </p><p>“Soon,” he promised, helping her to stand.</p><p> </p><p><b>“Not tonight?” </b>she asked, wishing her tone had come out differently. Direct, rather than desperate.</p><p> </p><p>He grinned and she saw a flicker of the boy from what felt like long ago.<b> “Just always be waiting for me.”</b></p><p> </p><p>————————————-</p><p> </p><p>Tahiti was an island paradise of commingling civilizations. Half-bare natives sold strange yellow fruit from poles over their shoulders, right up to the side of the ship. The port was a mixture of sailboats, steamships, and canoes. Locals helped to unload, presumably for coin or free merchandise, speaking French and English and strange combinations of both. The water was the bluest blue and the sand white, though her parents had written it was volcanic black in some places.</p><p> </p><p>Nana helped Wendy down the gangplank, her hands squished into her too-small lace gloves, holding a parasol, as if she hadn’t spent weeks living half-feral, hiding from contagion. For arrival day, Nana had set aside a new, white summer dress for Wendy, her first in the Gibson Girl style. Nana had done her hair in a fashionable braid of a young woman, no more drop curls for her, and insisted on a firm posture to show her parents she had done her duty by Wendy, despite their poor choice of vessel.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy stepped onto the warped boards of the dock, noticing more eyes on her than usual, due to the <b>cut, low and square, through which her figure could be seen to the best advantage, </b>the ship’s crew halting their hasty unloading, eager to receive payment and spend it on female company.</p><p> </p><p>The boys swam closer, already in the lagoon, calling her name sadly. How she longed to be with them. <b>By this time they were dejected, not merely because they were about to lose her, but also because they felt that she was going off to something nice to which they had not been invited.</b></p><p> </p><p>She cast around for Peter, but spotted her parents, dressed in all white and walking slowly towards her, pretending to rub their eyes in disbelief. At the end of the dock, her boots hit solid ground. Disorienting, to not have to focus on balance after so long at sea. </p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Darling gave her a tight squeeze, smelling of vanilla, their new income, while Mr. Darling took stock of her. </p><p> </p><p>“This cannot be the same girl who drew treasure maps on my dress shirts!” He said, his voice familiar now that she heard it again.</p><p> </p><p>“Where are Michael and John?” Wendy asked, disappointed, looking behind them, ready to see the change of two years in them as well.</p><p> </p><p>“Married, both of them!” Mrs. Darling laughed. “And you next, no doubt,” she said, tapping Wendy’s nose. </p><p> </p><p>Wendy was glad Peter hadn’t heard that comment, until her trunk hit the ground next to her, delivered by the man himself and Nibs, his little helper. </p><p> </p><p>“Ah, I see you travel like a lady as well,” her father chuckled, looking at the size of her chest of clothes and offering Peter a coin for his trouble. </p><p> </p><p>Peter took the coin with a polite nod, but handed it to Nibs, not daring a glance at Wendy as he turned to walk away through the chaos of the harbor.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy listened to the cadence of his footsteps on the boards as the distance between them grew and looked back quickly, more impulse than decision, her reward a last glimpse of his clover green eyes admiring her in her dress.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. That place between sleep and awake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After five months aboard a clipper ship, the island was exhilarating and at the same time, overstimulating. Her parents had brought a mule to haul her chest and a field hand led the animal by the reins as they walked the shady sand road, away from the harbor and stench of full latrines in the noontime sun.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy was stifling hot, cinched, and uncomfortable in her unworn-in heels. An occasional breeze would dry the sweat cold on her neck beneath her braid, tempting her to undo a button or two at her throat. </p><p> </p><p>She tried to focus on her parents, talking over each other about a grandchild on the way and their ten field hands and the maid, but their chatter was diminished by foreign insect noises. </p><p> </p><p>Nana seemed distracted too. Twitchy and unsmiling, like Wendy, still oppressed by their trip aboard the merchant vessel and the realities it had instilled. Small talk likened to something vapid and false.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes swept the lush foliage, trees with above-ground roots, and she caught glimpses of the beach where dull seabirds with long legs ran to and fro. They passed house after house, but to Wendy’s dismay, they trekked on.</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t walked-really walked-in so long. Her body’s capabilities were stretched thin as it was on the allotted rations. </p><p><br/>
Thankfully, after thirty minutes, Mr. Darling led her around a bend with a hand over her eyes, removing it a moment later to reveal their new home. </p><p> </p><p>“The Darling Plantation,” he read aloud from the painted sign by the road. “And my sister, Millicent, told me to stay a clerk in London,” he said jovially.</p><p> </p><p>The house was white, grand, two stories and covered in dark green ivy. Behind it, she could see the vanilla plants, strung and crowded into unnaturally neat lines, shielded from the sun by a grove of palm trees dressed in more vines.</p><p> </p><p>“I love it,” she said weakly with a glance at Nana who gave her a sympathetic look that said she understood. Her father had always been a spendthrift. But to put them on a merchant vessel rather than a passenger ship, when, by the looks of it, he could have afforded it, rather soured the moment.</p><p> </p><p>Her parents pulled her inside, touring her through bedrooms and the kitchen and Mr. Darling’s study, until Nana reminded them that Wendy had not eaten in some time and that good rest was hard to come by on the ship. They had the maid help Wendy to her room on the second floor, windows thrown wide to combat the heat, and Nana brought her up a plate of sweet “breadfruit” and biscuits with cold peach tea. </p><p> </p><p>Blissfully alone, for the first time in almost half a year, Wendy lay across her four poster, legs akimbo, and sighed. She drank the entire glass of tea, then sat at the window, wondering if Peter would come to her, climb the tree by the side window or attempt the trellis of the north window. </p><p> </p><p>Someone in too-short breaches waved at her from the tree line. Curly! He was grinning his madcap smile, hair still wet from swimming.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy waved back and he turned and ran dutifully away. She wondered if Peter had sent him along to tail her, find her house and determine which room was hers. A thrill upset her stomach, or perhaps it was the tea, so sugary.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy dug through her dresser, finding several nightgowns. She laid them out on the bed conspiratorily before deciding on a baby blue gown trimmed with ribbon. She’d bathe and corkscrew her curls, then nap and stay awake all night. Waiting for him.</p><p> </p><p>——————-</p><p> </p><p>Wendy had every intention of waking up from her nap, but her bed proved too soft, too cloud-like for her to extricate herself that night, or any of the next three nights. She hadn’t realized how ragged she had become until faced with the comforts of a home, a full belly, and an escape from the world. </p><p> </p><p>She slept fourteen hours a night, ate three meals a day, and strolled the vanilla bean fields, learning the names of the workers and their children, some half native, living just over the hill in one-room homes her father had built for them.</p><p> </p><p>On the fourth night, she was reading by candlelight, quite certain she could stay awake this time, when Mrs. Darling could be heard just outside her door.</p><p> </p><p>“I must just check on her, George,” she whispered.</p><p> </p><p>“Let her sleep, she’s still recovering from the trip,” her father said, nonplussed.</p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Darling persisted,” <b>When I came into the room tonight, I saw a face at the window…</b>”</p><p> </p><p>She heard the distinct, scuffling halt of Mr. Darling’s boots. </p><p> </p><p><b>“The face of a boy</b>,” she continued.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy blanched, sitting bolt upright. No wonder the windows had been locked when she had come to bed.</p><p> </p><p>“<b>Two flights up?</b>” Mr. Darling sounded like he was seconds from kicking down her door. But Mrs. Darling deliberated with him in hushed, muted tones until she had convinced herself it was all folly and they retreated downstairs.</p><p> </p><p>All night Wendy sat, leaning dreamily out her front window, hoping the candle wouldn’t dwindle. She wanted him to see it and know she was awake. Her thoughts swam with fiendish smiles and misadventures. But he didn’t come and by breakfast she had a crick in her neck.</p><p> </p><p>“Wendy, is this true? Your captain was a drunkard who fell overboard?” Mr. Darling said over the brim of his newspaper. “Former military man, this-,” he consulted the article again, “James Cook?”</p><p> </p><p>Wendy didn’t flinch at the mention of his name, but something tightened in her stomach as she remembered that fearful moment when she realized the captain wasn’t going to give her the strap.</p><p> </p><p>“He was a villain,” Nana said from the kitchen, slowly filling a basket of food.</p><p> </p><p>“Are we going on a picnic I don’t know about?” Mr. Darling asked, watching as Mrs. Darling brought another three baskets to the dining room table.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s for the workhouse boys,” Nana explained. “They haven’t had a decent meal in...maybe they’ve never had a decent meal.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dreadful,” Mrs. Darling tisked. </p><p> </p><p>Wendy felt ill. Visiting the boys should have been her idea. Dear, lovely Nana.</p><p> </p><p>“How many are there?” Mr. Darling asked, already doing the expenses in his head as Nana heaved a basket to the floor full of clinking jam jars, currants, potatoes, and bread.</p><p> </p><p>“Four,” Wendy said, swiftly. </p><p> </p><p>“There <em> were </em> eight,” Nana said sadly, “before the illness.” She cast them a glance that said she had already informed them of that part of their journey.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I come with you, Nana?” Wendy asked hopefully. </p><p> </p><p>Her parents had forbidden her from going back to the harbor due to its reputation for gambling, drinking, and forbidden pleasures. But talk of shipborne illness wasn’t going to endear it to them either.</p><p> </p><p>Her mother gave her a look that invited further explanation. </p><p> </p><p>“I read them bedtime stories and mended their clothes,” Wendy said, painting them as babes rather than young men, their voices in flux, and Peter, seventeen now.</p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Darling gave her a skeptical glance. “No,” she said simply. </p><p> </p><p>Wendy glared at her scone.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll have them come here,” she clarified. “Nana will bring them. That way we don’t have to be seen at Papeete.”</p><p> </p><p>Nana nodded, “Grand. Have them for dinner or tea?” </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Darling lowered his paper, evidently unprepared for the costs associated with either suggestion.</p><p> </p><p>“Dinner will suffice,” Mrs. Darling smiled.</p><p> </p><p>———————————</p><p> </p><p>When Nana returned, she was followed by Nibs, Curly, and Grant. Wendy’s heart sank. She was in her favorite dress and had cooked for three hours. </p><p> </p><p>The boys ate like wolves, which seemed to thoroughly please her mother and left her father looking affronted. </p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t you say there were four boys, Nana?” Mrs. Darling asked and Wendy paused with a spoon of soup halfway to her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Peter couldn’t be wrangled,” Nana said, trying to butter cuts of French bread faster than the boys could eat them. “He’s found work with the local carpenters.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
“He’s making me a flute!” Curly piped up.</p><p> </p><p>“And he’s going to build a house for W-,” Grant started, only to be roughly elbowed by Nibs. “W-when the boat leaves...so he’ll have a house,” Grant corrected himself.</p><p> </p><p>Wendy was still holding her spoon in the air, her heart pounding. Grant gave her an apologetic look. So Peter had told all the boys. That seemed like an unneeded risk.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell them what you told me on the walk here,” Nana prompted him.</p><p> </p><p>Grant grinned, “Peter’s adopting us. Me and Curly. They wouldn’t let him get Nibs.” </p><p> </p><p>Wendy felt caught somewhere between shock-that she had found out this news in front of her parents-and a rush of love for Peter, for looking out for the boys. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fourteen,” Nibs said dolefully. “I don’t wanna to be adopted anyway.” </p><p> </p><p>Wendy’s jaw clenched.</p><p> </p><p>“Surely there’s someone on the island who could use another hand. From a smart boy like you, Nibs,” Wendy looked beseechingly at her father. </p><p> </p><p>Nana’s knife was the only sound as everyone ceased chewing to focus on Mr. Darling. He fixed Mrs. Darling long and hard for a moment, before wiping the corners of his mouth with his table napkin. “Well, if one boy can take on two, I don’t see why I can’t take on one,” he said, “As a worker, mind.”</p><p> </p><p>Wendy nearly fell out of her chair, wrapping her arms around his neck. Nibs looked positively baffled while Curly and Grant cheered raucously. </p><p> </p><p>“Got a spare row house, down at the end,” her father said, waving them off like the hero of the hour. “Can set you up, easy enough.”</p><p> </p><p>When the boys left, groaning with indulgence, Wendy kissed her parents goodnight and scaled the steps to her room. The maid had left her two candlesticks, under the impression Wendy liked to read into the late hours of the night and she lit one, dripping wax to the holder so it would stick in firmly.</p><p> </p><p>“Wendy,” came a tentative voice from behind her and she looked up to see a shadow approaching. </p><p> </p><p>Peter! Finally!</p><p> </p><p>She ran quietly to him, kissing him and delighting in his presence, his hands on her back and the taste of him. Like mint and cinnamon. He smelled like the wood that was making his hands even rougher than she was used to and she breathed him in so obviously that he laughed.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s been four days,” she whined, by way of an excuse, running her hands down his arms, his new shirt.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah,” he grinned, that sneaky way she loved, “but I came every night, sleepyhead.” </p><p> </p><p>No! He’d come and she had slept through it. “Why didn’t you wake me?” </p><p> </p><p>“I couldn’t, you looked so content. But I left you notes,” he said, pointing to her nightstand.</p><p> </p><p>In the top drawer next to sewing scissors and empty thread spools were three folded pieces of paper. She snatched them up and sat on the bed, patting the spot next to her while she read them to herself.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>The second star to the right shines in the night for you, to tell you that the dreams you plan really can come true.</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Wendy leaned to the side and gave him a kiss, unfolding the next. His handwriting was getting so much better than five months ago.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting.</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Crushing the paper to her heart, she leaned and gave him another kiss, longer, and thankful. Peter had been right there, scribbling her messages and letting her sleep, even though his mouth told her now he had wanted her, wanted her and waited.</p><p> </p><p>She unfolded the last one.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>Second star to the right, and straight on ‘til morning.</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean, the second star?” Wendy asked. It was in two of the notes.</p><p> </p><p>He pulled her off the bed and to the side window, searching the sky. Pointing to Gemini, he smiled. “Sailors believe that if you can see both stars, your journey will be prosperous.”</p><p> </p><p>“And what if you can only see one?” Wendy asked as the stars winked down at them, bright, even as dusk crept into night.</p><p> </p><p>“Bad luck,” Peter said, swallowing. “But I’m the left and you’re the right. And you never waver. You’re there, always, 'til the sun comes up.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for the delay. It's not dead, just sleeping.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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